Family Vacation
by mk162rl8619
Summary: To solve the mystery of Joan's disappearance on a cruise ship, Sherlock must work together with her disapproving Aunt Agnes. They soon realize that their problems are much larger than they first believed. Kind of crazy :)
1. Chapter 1

"When you asked me if I would like to go on a cruise, I was under the impression that we'd be alone. And by alone, I simply meant without Aunt Haggis." Sherlock sat, arms crossed, frowning at a pattern of rusty flowers that stained the maroon carpet. Joan did her best to look reprimanding, but it was impossible. Sherlock had a knack for nicknames.

"Agnes, Sherlock and you better break that habit before she shows up."

"Or what? Does she have talons and laser vision?" Sherlock asked.

"Worse, much worse." Joan stood up. "I'll enjoy listening to your arguments. Isn't it funny that you two ended up next to each other and I'm down the hall?" She began to leave. As the door rocked closed behind her, Sherlock leaned back and said,

"I'll have you know Watson, I'm beginning to suspect foul play. Watson?" Sherlock muttered to himself then plopped his suitcase on the bed. Unzipping it, he took out a pair of neon green swim trunks splattered with orange hibiscus.

"I suppose I'd best prepare myself." He began to unbutton his flannel.

"Aunt Agnes, this is-oh my God." Sherlock was face down on the floor in his swim trunks, a snorkel and flippers. When he heard Joan speak, he popped up, causing both her and her aunt to jump.

"Why hello. You must be the aunt. The one with the piranha Pekingese and atrocious taste who cut Joan off after she gave up doctorhood. By all means, come in." Sherlock smiled. The aunt, clad in a heavy magenta skirt-suit frowned for a moment then smiled back.

"You must be the bum who's still supported by his father and hasn't found a real job yet. And yes, I am the aunt." She extended a wrinkled hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Holmes. Now get up and sit down so that we may speak like civilized people. Joan, get out, I don't want you meddling. I want to meet the man you've been living with." Aunt Agnes's mouth twitched. Joan sighed.

"I've already explained to you, there's nothing romantic between Sherlock-"

"Out. Attend to Rudolph's needs." Aunt Agnes turned to Sherlock, who, somewhat shell-shocked, was sitting on the edge of the bed. "That's your piranha. Now, what on Earth were you doing when I walked in?" She crossed her talons over a purse that matched her suit hideously.

"Seeing if they vacuumed beneath beds on cruise-ships."

"And do they?"

"So it seems." Sherlock tapped his fingers together. Aunt Agnes brushed dust off her arm.

"Excellent. I don't know if I'd trust a man's judgement, but-"

"I assure you, you may trust mine."

"Why?"

"I know that you are not married, have had seven Pekingeses all having names starting with R, had a lot of money at one point but, having lived longer than you intended, are beginning to run out, you don't get along with your sister because you believe she indulged and corrupted your niece and you actually do have atrocious taste." Sherlock bowed.

Aunt Agnes raised her eyebrows. "Any other reason why I should trust you, Mr. Holmes?"

"Well, according to your suspicions, I myself have excellent taste, especially in women, considering I'm living with your niece." He smiled. She frowned, but Sherlock sensed a gleam in her eye that was almost amused.

"I think that'll be quite enough for now. You may walk Rudolph later on, once he's had his salmon." She stood up. "As for now, you may accompany me to my quarters."

"As you wish." Sherlock stood up, and, Aunt Agnes in arm, led her out of his room and one door over, doing his best not to trip her with his flippers. She picked up Rudolph and smirked.

"Just so you know Mr. Holmes, I now believe every word Joan told me. She'd never sleep with a nerdy busybody like you." The door slammed in Sherlock's face. He stared at it.

Joan emerged from her room down the hall.

"So how was it?" Sherlock looked down, processing the last few minutes. Then he looked up, the corner of his mouth raised.

"Oh, I think it went very well." He bobbed his head.. "I like this aunt of yours, she has spunk." Sherlock made an exploding motion with his fingers. Joan rolled her eyes.

"I should have known."

Two hours later, the ship lingering off the coast of Virginia, Sherlock finishing his promenade with Rudolph, flippers still on, he stopped by Joan's room. He knocked on the door. There was no reply. Frowning he thought back to the deck, where he had just taken Rudolph. He hadn't seen Joan anywhere. Rudolph scratched at the door and whined. Sherlock knitted his eyebrows.

"Easy boy, we'll open it." Sherlock touched the door, and was alarmed to find it already open. There was a maid in the room. Glancing around, Sherlock did not see any of Joan's belongings.

"Excuse me, have you seen the inhabitant of this room, Ms. Watson? She's Asian." The maid shook her head, slowly mopping the floor.

"There isn't anybody in this room." She met his gaze. "Mr. Holmes."


	2. Chapter 2

"What on Earth is going on, young man? You don't seriously mean to tell me that you've lost my third-favorite niece." Aunt Agnes's lip poked out and downwards into a look of disapproval. His snorkel jiggling, Sherlock opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Aunt Agnes snatched the leash from him. "Better give me that before you lose him too." She snatched Rudolph off the ground and began stroking him. "Is it normal for famous detectives to lose people? Is that a valuable skill when searching for murderers?"

"I did not lose Ms. Watson-"

"Oh, you simply misplaced her, I see. Men!" Aunt Agnes shook her head.

"I have reason to believe that Ms. Watson has been kidnapped, and by someone with considerable control of this ship."

"I do believe you are making excuses, and bloody awful ones too. Are you sure that Joan is not simply enjoying herself? I'm sure she is quite used to that after giving up the work of a doctor for a life of leisure."

"Detective work is not leisurely Aunt Agnes, it often requires immense agility of both the mind and body-"

"I am not going to argue with you, young man. You'd better find that child, or you will feel the burn." She stared at him out of deep dark eyes. Sherlock frowned.

"Burn of what?"

"My wrath, of course. Hell too, for that matter. Come Rudolph, you must leave Mr. Holmes to his work." Sherlock began to leave.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"To go look-"

"I'm coming with you. Do you really think I'd leave the fate of my third favorite niece in the hands of such a nincompoop?" She tossed a fur stole over her shoulder, and walked out of the room. In the doorway, she turned.

"Besides, you need someone that looks halfway respectable. Not some Australian who never learned what a shirt was." She continued. Sherlock grimaced.

"Austrailian?" He trotted after her. "Why is Joan Watson your third favorite niece?"

"Because I have five nieces and two are doctors and two are busy discovering themselves." Aunt Agnes shrugged theatrically. "Joan is in between, so naturally the third-favorite. I had thought that would be obvious to a master of deduction such as you claim to be." Aunt Agnes frowned, trying the handle of Joan's door.

"If she were a doctor, where would she fall in the line-up?"

"Quit asking questions and help me find her, will you? Open this damned door."

Sherlock hurried over and tried the door. "It's locked."

"Obviously. I could have opened it if it wasn't."

"You want me to break down this door?" Sherlock stared.

"You're not as bright as Joan says." When Sherlock didn't move, she snapped her fingers beneath his nose. He jumped. "Open the door."

"As you insist." Bewildered, Sherlock found himself body-slamming the door under the scrutiny of Rudolph. The Pekingese smirked out of watery red eyes. On the third try, it opened.

"These doors are not what I would call secure. It makes me wonder exactly what kind of cruise line Ms. Watson bought tickets from."

"I bought the tickets." Aunt Agnes peered into the room. The lights were off and curtain closed. It was difficult to make out anything, even with the light in the hall. After evaluating it for a moment, Aunt Agnes returned to the hall. "You first."

"I thought the saying was ladies first." Sherlock craned his neck, wondering what Aunt Agnes was afraid of or setting him up for. He felt a surprisingly forceful shove propel him into the room.

"Cowardly scum." Sherlock felt around for the lights. Once they were on, Aunt Agnes entered the room. As Sherlock had seen before, it was empty of everything pertaining to Joan. Sherlock walked over to the window.

"Are you sure this is the right room? It would be mortifying if we were in the wrong place. And entirely your fault I might add." She stroked Rudolph.

Sherlock lifted the blue curtain to the side. Beneath his snorkel, his eyes were bright and his face tense.

"No Aunt Agnes."

"What?" She turned.

"We are definitely in the wrong place. But it isn't my fault, unless I accidently swallowed all of North America with my breakfast cereal."

"What nonsense are you spouting now?" Aunt Agnes hustled over to the window. "Show me." Sherlock pointed out at the expanse of blue. "Well of course there's water we're on a cruise." Sherlock shook his head.

"Ms. Watson's room was so positioned that she had a view of the coastline the entire time." Sherlock turned to Aunt Agnes. "Which begs the question, where are we going now, and does it have anything to do with the disappearance of your third-favorite niece?"


	3. Chapter 3

"Quick, we must leave the room." Sherlock grabbed Aunt Agnes by the arm and began to guide her out.

"Whatever for? This is the last place we saw Joan alive, why would we leave?"

"There is something very wrong on this cruiseship of yours." Sherlock closed the door behind them. Aunt Agnes remained silent. He guided her into his room and locked the door. After staring at it for a moment, he dragged a chair across the room and put it up against the door handle. He then sat in the chair.

"Well you're not just going to sit there are you? Joan is missing." Aunt Agnes sat down on the bed, releasing Rudolph onto Sherlock's pillows, where he took no time at all to paw the neat bed into a jumbled mess of sheets. "I'd like to know where she is."

"I'd like to know where you got the tickets from."

"Don't go blaming this on me young man. You're the one who saw her last. However, as I see you might find the information relevant to the case," Aunt Agnes bowed her head graciously, "I shall tell you." She paused.

"Thank you." Sherlock smiled the smile of a caged shark. Aunt Agnes adjusted her jacket. She picked up her handbag and proceeded to claw through it. A couple minutes later she produced a wrinkled piece of paper.

"There. My receipt." She said. "Penelope Cruises." Sherlock frowned.

"I've never heard of them."

"And of course you hear of everything." Aunt Agnes shook her head so that the loose skin on her neck wabbled. Sherlock examined the paper, eyes narrowed.

"Generally speaking...well yes I do." He looked up at her. She shook her head again.

"Insufferable impertinence." Sherlock turned his attention back to the paper.

"How exactly did you hear about Penelope Cruises?"

"What are you, a satisfaction survey? They send letters to my house."

Sherlock tossed the receipt to the side and stood up. He wriggled his feet out of his flippers. He brushed some fine white dust off the bottoms that he had picked up in the halls.

"What ever are you doing?"

"Preparing for battle." Sherlock yanked his snorkel off and pulled out a t-shirt patterned with hibiscus. As he buttoned it the phone rang. Both of them paused to look at the phone. Rudolph lifted his head from the sheets and looked up, panting. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Aunt Agnes and reached his fingers out, grasping the phone and bringing it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Mr. Holmes. This is the reception deck. We would like to invite you to a dinner with the ship's captain this evening." A female voice with a metallic quality came out of the speaker.

"Won't he be busy, er, captaining?" The voice laughed.

"I assure you we'll drop anchor for the captain's dinner. We can't have the boat running itself now can we?" Sherlock laughed mechanically.

"I suppose not. What time is this dinner?"

"Seven o'clock at the main restaurant. One question, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes?" Sherlock knitted his brow. Aunt Agnes leaned forward.

"We saw that you had bought your ticket at the same time as a certain Ms. Watson. Do you know her?"

"Why yes, I do." Sherlock gripped the phone tighter. Aunt Agnes frowned. She couldn't hear the conversation, but she clearly felt the anticipation radiating from Sherlock. As the voice on the end of the line spoke, Sherlock's face grew increasingly difficult to read.

"Yes, I'll let you know." Sherlock set the phone down and frowned. He stared into the corner.

"Well? What did they have to say about Joan?" Aunt Agnes stroked Rudolph. Sherlock turned to her, still frowning.

"They say they are unable to locate her in order to invite her to a similar dinner."

"Well, considering we're unable to locate her, I don't find that extremely odd." Aunt Agnes shoulders jumped into her ears. Sherlock shook his head.

"I find it absolutely mystifying. I am positive that Joan's disappearance is related to this boat somehow."

"Do you think it's time we called the professionals? The police I mean." Rudolph looked up at Sherlock with watery eyes.

"Can't." Sherlock held up his phone. "No signal." He looked down at Rudolph. "Besides, I am the police's top consultant anyway, why would we need the rest of them, that would be silly." Aunt Agnes surveyed Sherlock's outfit with uncertainty. Rudolph whimpered.

"You don't really intend to go to this dinner do you?"  
"Of course I do. I want to find out what happened to Joan."

"Do you think it will be dangerous?" Aunt Agnes raised a penciled eyebrow. Sherlock shrugged.

"I don't see why it matters. These people have Joan, and therefore I must face them regardless of how dangerous they may or may not be."

"Are you sure that Joan is alive?" Aunt Agnes looked up at Sherlock. He met her gaze. For a moment they were silent, both contemplating the alternative. Then Sherlock grinned.

"Of course she is. She's your niece, after all. How much time do I have until my meeting with the captain?"

Sherlock opened the door to the restaurant. The arrangement for his dinner with the captain puzzled him. There was no banquet or long table, no flashing lights or commentators. He was told to meet the captain in a booth at the back of the restaurant. He was beginning to think that it was very dangerous, and seriously doubted Aunt Agnes prospects as a travel agent. The lady on the phone had said back left corner. He could see two big men and the top of a bowler hat in that booth already. He glanced at his watch. Six fifty-seven. He approached the booth.

The man in the bowler hat was the captain, it seemed. He had round grey eyes and a flabby face, though he wasn't too far overweight. Despite it's physical softness, Sherlock detected a hardness in his gaze. Thinking of Joan, Sherlock took a seat.

"Hello Mr. Holmes. I trust you enjoy your stay so far?" He had a heavy Russian accent. He smiled. Sherlock frowned, and said nothing.

"I see you see that something is happening. Good, very good. You have brain. This is good."

"I think so." Sherlock said. The Russian laughed.

"I am Mikhail Levich Pugarovsky. You know?" He chuckled. Sherlock widened his eyes. Pugarovsky chuckled some more. "I am good businessman. This is business trip, no?"

"You lead the Russian mafia in America, if I am not mistaken?" Sherlock leaned forward. Pugarovsky shrugged.

"Yes. Mafia sounds bad, no? Businessman, I am a businessman, Mr. Holmes."

"Aunt Haggis receives letters from the Russian mafia?" Sherlock frowned. Pugarovsky shrugged.

"We send letters to who we like, yes? We wanted to contact you, Mr. Holmes, not Haggis." Pugarovsky waved his hand. Sherlock looked back and forth between the bodyguards.

"What on earth could you want with me."

"We sit here between your homelands, do we not? And the laws of neither can touch you. I make sure you are aware of this. I love international waters." Pugarovsky clasped his hands.

"Tell me what it is you want."

"I shall be short then. I want your...cooperation, that is, ready unseeing towards my new operations in the New York area." Pugarovsky leaned back. "I will pay excellent money of course."

"I don't deal with drug cases, I never see anything to unsee." Sherlock shrugged. Pugarovsky tilted his head.

"But you could have others unsee. Papers I hear get lost quite easily in such places as the New York Police Department."

"Before we talk about my unseeing, I'd like to know what you've done with my partner, Joan Watson." Pugarovsky frowned.

"What?"

"Joan Watson, the Asian woman that was down the hall from me. You wanted to talk to her too, but she's gone missing. I want to know where she is and what you've done to her. Her aunt's been bothering me about her disappearance you see. After all, one only has one third-favorite niece." Pugarovsky smirked at Sherlock's sarcasm. He then tilted his head the opposite way he had before. He took off his bowler hat, revealing a bald head and rubbed it. His face serious he looked at Sherlock.

"I thought that Joan Watson was never boarding this ship."


	4. Chapter 4

"No, you are mistaken. Joan Watson very much did board this ship, and I want to know where she is." Sherlock leaned forward. Pugarovsky straightened the cap upon his head.

"You are sure?" He rubbed his chin.

"Yes, I am certain." Pugarovsky frowned. He shifted in his seat. After a pause he said,

"You think we took her?" Sherlock shrugged. Pugarovsky chuckled. "That would have been smart. We should have. But we did not."

"Well then what happened to her? Do you expect me to believe that on a boat controlled by the Russian mafia, Ms. Joan Watson was kidnapped by a third party?"

At that moment, the door to the restaurant opened. Pugarovsky glanced up. Sherlock followed his eyes. A small woman clothed entirely in magenta, clutching a tiny dog to her chest bustled over to their booth.

"Aunt Agnes!" Sherlock jumped up. "What are you doing here, I told you to stay in the room?"

"You took far too long with your parleying. I must see Joan, where is she?" Aunt Agnes stared down at Pugarovsky. He blinked. "Speak up man! Sherlock what's this fellow's name?"

Sherlock rocked back and forth on his feet. "Allow me to introduce Mr. Mikhail Levich Pugarovsky, captain of the ship." He flourished a napkin at the mobster. "And Mr. Pugarovsky, let me introduce, er, Aunt Agnes, aunt of the aforesaid Joan Watson."

"She is related to Haggis?" Pugarovsky asked. Sherlock winced. Aunt Agnes frowned.

"I should say not! Mannerless man, keeps his hat on at the table, doesn't stand to meet a woman." She turned to Sherlock. "I say, I thought you were a brute, but in comparison," she shrugged, "Joan didn't do half bad. Now where is she?" She turned on Pugarovsky.

"We were just discussing this, Aunt Ha-Agnes." Aunt Agnes narrowed her eyes at Sherlock, who proceeded to fake a sneeze. "He doesn't know where she is."

"Well, he's lying of course." Aunt Agnes shrugged. Pugarovsky looked up in protest.

"I don't have her, please believe, I was not involved. I want us on one side, you see?"

"You're the captain, how many sides do you have? A sinking side and a surviving side? Or perhaps a shipwrecked side, and a lost at sea side?" Aunt Agnes frowned at him. Rudolph growled. Pugarovsky looked at Sherlock.

"Mr. Pugarovsky happens to be involved with the Russian mafia." Pugarovsky smiled with a shrug. Aunt Agnes made a sound of disgust.

"I should have known. Never trust an accent." She glanced at Sherlock. "Please let me know once you've located my niece. And don't do anything illegal, it would be quite an embarrassment." She began to leave, but turned back. "And if you are indeed responsible for this, I'll have you know that I will do anything in my power to ensure your punishment." Aunt Agnes stalked off, letting the restaurant door swing behind her. Sherlock was appalled. No one, not even him, threatened the Russian mafia. They were stranded there, aboard a ship with them, no phone signal, Joan a hostage somewhere and-

"That's quite a woman, friend." Pugarovsky said.

"A, er, yes, she's, well-"

"If I didn't know otherwise, I'd say she was a strong, Russian woman." Pugarovsky nodded. "That's how a woman should be made. No one could kidnap her." Sherlock stared.

"Well this was unexpected." Pugarovsky pretended not to hear him. He tilted his head.

"Yes Mr. Holmes, we may be able to help you. A contract will be made of course, but there is time for that." Pugarovsky was still staring at the door, which had only just stopped swinging as he extended his hand. Sherlock shook it. Pugarovsky motioned towards one of his bodyguards. The man stood up and guided Sherlock out of the restaurant. When Sherlock returned to his room, he found that, while Aunt Agnes had left, Rudolph was curled up in the middle of his bed. Collapsing into an armchair, Sherlock said,

"Dearest Joan, I shall never, ever, say anything negative of your companionship ever again."


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock bent over a corner of the Joan's old room. He was wearing a different hibiscus print shirt and plaid swim trunks. He had not yet had the chance to go swimming, but he believed in keeping up the spirit of the cruise ship.

"What is this? What you do to my lock?"

"It was a lousy lock, Mr. Pugarovsky." Sherlock sniffed the wall as Mr. Pugarovsky jiggled the door handle. Now that he was standing, the Russian barely came up to Sherlock's chin.

"I expect we will be able to take drugs out in convertible in daylight for this." Pugarovsky frowned, kicking the door. Sherlock turned.

"You allowed me into a room I was capable of breaking into, in fact, had already broken into, in order to investigate the disappearance of one of your passengers. I do not consider myself greatly indebted as of this moment." Sherlock returned to his examination. He looked under the bed.

"You broke my lock. I should make you into shark food."

"I don't understand, it was a lousy lock! Be quiet or I shall call Aunt Agnes." Sherlock crawled under the bed.

"Oh, no, no that will not be necessary." Pugarovsky chuckled. "I do not like yelling before lunch."

Sherlock crawled out the other side of the bed, bumping his head on the edge of the frame. White powder fell on his head.

"What you doing, stupid Englishman?" Pugarovsky ran over and began brushing the powder into his hand. He wouldn't let Sherlock stand.

"What the hell are you doing? Get of me for Christ's sake I'm conducting an investigation here."

"It is a clumsy investigation, you are investigating things you don't need to be investigating right now, idiot." He muttered something in Russian. Sherlock crawled out from under the bed, shaking his head. Pugarovsky bent down, scooping up white powder that had fallen on the floor and dumping it into a small leather pouch he had on his belt.

"Hang on a second-"

"Shut up, you saw nothing."

"Hang on, if-"

"You saw nothing!" Pugarovsky began pushing Sherlock towards the door. Sherlock dug his heels in.

"I am warning you, I shall call Aunt Agnes." The Russian shoved harder. Sherlock opened his mouth.

"Aunt Agnes! Aunt Agnes! Aunt-" The Russian clamped a hand over Sherlock's mouth, but it was too late. A short elderly figure appeared in the doorway wearing an elaborate bathrobe and large sunhat. The Russian released Sherlock and put his hands behind his back, as if it was someone else who had been smothering the detective moments before.

"What is it now, you incompetent fiends?"

"Fiends?" Sherlock frowned. Pugarovsky whispered to him,

"What, what is fiends?"

"Devils! Scum of the earth! What are you doing when you should be finding Joan?" Aunt Agnes hissed. She closed the door behind her.

"Don't want the neighbors to hear, of course." She straightened her jacket and brushed it off. "Now, what seems to be the trouble? You cannot seriously expect me to be at your beck and call every moment of the day, young man. I am on vacation." She turned to Sherlock, shaking a finger.

"Aunt Agnes, your niece is missing-"

"Don't give me that, what do you think you're for? Decoration? You're face isn't pretty enough for that my friend even by today's standards. And don't snigger like that, comrade, it isn't at all becoming. Especially for a communist like you."

"I am not communist, I am capital, I like money, I run business-" Pugarovsky's voice jumped three octaves.

"I believe it is a business of Mr. Pugarovsky's that has led to Joan's disappearance." Sherlock said, craning his neck and doing his best to drown out the mobster's unintelligible protests.

"Everyone be silent!" Aunt Agnes said, her voice exploding through the room. Both Sherlock and Pugarovsky stopped speaking. She pointed a claw at Sherlock. "You first."

"Mr. Pugarovsky's mattress here is filled with cocaine balloons. I'm sure Joan found one and brought it to someone's attention which led to her subsequent kidnapping." Sherlock turned from Mr. Pugarovsky to Aunt Agnes. Pugarovsky rubbed the back of his neck, fingers drumming on the leather pouch at his hip.

"Well? What do you have to say for yourself?" He shrugged and said,

"Well, like I told you, I am businessman, I do business. Not communist, you said-"

"Do you think I care if you're communist or not? Men! Don't understand a thing." Aunt Agnes shook her head.

"I think we may be certain of that."

"Be quiet you pompous Austrailian! You're mouth has more ammunition than all of Fort Knox." Aunt Agnes put her head in her fingertips. She then clasped her hands together and closed her eyes. "You're telling me that one of the Russians kidnapped Joan because she caught them with cocaine that this nincompoop stuffed in a mattress?"

"Yes, that is what I hypothesize."

"So give him a good whipping and find out where she is." Aunt Agnes said. Both Sherlock and Pugarovsky looked at her in surprise, then looked at each other. Pugarovsky put his hands in the air.

"Aunt Agnes!" Sherlock looked back at her.

"What, it's the sensible thing to do. You broke his door down, break him down too. In the meantime, I'd like to enjoy my vacation with Rudolph. I am the one paying for it you know." She glared at them. She turned to walk out the door then looked back. "Problem-solving, why can't men just problem-solve? This is exactly why I never married. You're all so stupid." She walked out the door and called back over her shoulder,

"Don't bother me until you find Joan. I'm going to take a nap."

Sherlock looked at Pugarovsky, who had, during Aunt Agnes's short monologue, edged away from him so that the bedpost was between them. Evidently, he was afraid Sherlock would take Aunt Agnes's suggestion to heart.

"So where is she, Pugarovsky?" Sherlock stared at him. Trying to squeeze his rather stocky form behind the narrow post Pugarovsky shrugged.

"I swear to you I do not know!"

Ten minutes later, Sherlock was creeping along the hall in his clashing tropic-wear with Pugarovsky looking over his shoulder.

"Why are you sneaking? This is my boat."

"I don't fancy being seen and recognized by one of your thugs."

"Ach, don't worry, we get lots of strange dressed people." Sherlock glanced at him.

"I wasn't talking about my attire, for God's sake. You are certain you do not know who did it?" Sherlock turned to him. Pugarovsky stopped.

"Wait, wait, wait." Sherlock stopped and turned. Pugarovsky was standing, his feet spaced slightly apart, head bowed, hands clasped before him and eyes closed. Sherlock looked around, expecting to see a priest with an arm raised in blessing.

"Wha-"

"Shh!" Pugarovsky held up a hand to silence him and returned to his meditative state. "Yes, it must have been Vanya." He brushed past Sherlock and stormed down the hall. Sherlock trotted after him.

"Who is Vanya?"

"Never have a brother Mr. Holmes, especially one who is an idiot." Pugarovsky turned a sharp corner.

"I will keep that in mind next time I converse with my father. Vanya is a brother then?"

"Can primates be called brothers?" Pugarovsky stopped in front of a door and banged on it.

"Vanya!" Pugarovsky followed with a stream of Russian. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He could hear something strange on the other side of the door, something unsettling. Was it sobs?

The door exploded open so that it almost skinned Pugarovsky's nose. A young-ish man collapsed onto his knees and grabbed Pugarovsky's ankles. He thrust his head up against Pugarovsky's shins and wailed into his legs, sniffling and snorting. Pugarovsky looked down in distaste, but not in surprise. He looked at Sherlock and thrust his arm forward.

"Disgusting, no?" Sherlock stood, mesmerized. He nodded.

"Brother! Brother I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry!" Vanya started wailing in Russian. A couple doors opened, and shut quickly. A few of them opened again, with single eyes peering out at the spectacle.

"What is it Vanya?" Sherlock's eyes widened and panic rose in his heart as Vanya spoke.

"I've done," he hiccupped, "a bad thing, an awful thing. I've done a very bad thing and this time I'm beyond salvation!"


	6. Chapter 6

"What have you done?" Pugarovsky said, trying to shake Vanya off. Vanya hugged his brother's legs tighter and mumbled. Pugarovsky slapped his head. Vanya wouldn't let go. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Vanya?" As if electrified, Vanya sprung back into a crouch, eyeing Sherlock, his hands raised in fists.

"Who's the American?"

"I'm British for God's sake." Sherlock said. Vanya narrowed his eyes and chuckled.

"No, no." He pointed to Sherlock's shirt. "Englishmen carry umbrellas." He creeped over to Pugarovsky and whispered. "He's an imposter."

"He is not, idiot, we have been watching this man for long time. Now what did you do, Vanya?" Pugarovsky frowned up at Vanya. Now that he was standing, Vanya was a good six inches taller than his brother, though much thinner. Vanya rubbed his hands together, glancing at Sherlock.

"I, er, broke a plate. Shattered, glue isn't going to fix it. Irrrrreverrrsible." He cackled.

"Liar!"

"No, no, not lying." Vanya craned his neck like a turtle, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock. He scanned the Englishman carefully.

"You do not seriously expect me to believe your lies, you are clearly guilty of more than broken crockery. Do you know anything about the disappearance of Joan Watson?" Sherlock rocked back and forth, drumming his fingers. Vanya shrugged.

"Me forget ingles." He darted back within his room and slammed the door. Pugarovsky began banging on the door again, shouting in Russian. Sherlock stormed over and joined in.

"Where's Joan? Do you have Joan? You moronic piece of slime!"

"Idiot, idiot, idiot!" Pugarovsky wailed. Sherlock body-slammed the door, but it hardly budged.

"How the hell is his door so strong, when Joan's broke down in seconds?"

"He builds fort in room."

"What?"

Pugarovsky turned and gesticulating wildly said. "He makes locks and bars and shuts himself in. Its his...his what is it...?"

"His hobby?" Sherlock asked. Pugarovsky nodded.

"He is shame, that's why mother forced him on me, at sea, so no one knew. And now we're both trapped here. Idiot! Shame of the Pugarovskys!" Pugarovsky kicked the door. Vanya began to cry and laugh at the same time. About half the rooms were open now, passengers sticking their heads out into the hall. Pugarovsky took no notice. Realizing that they were making no progress, Sherlock began to drag him down the hall. Pugarovsky spit at Vanya's door.

"Don't you care? I get seasick. I vomit on the cabin! The map is useless! I miss Russia. And New York! I could get deal in New York. I've been trying to set up for years. I finally get door. American was my door and you locked it! Give him back the Watson, evil one, or we are lost. We're already lost. Give him back the Watson." Sherlock dragged him more forcefully. He could hear worried whispers in the hall. Pugarovsky collapsed into Sherlock's arms, as good as lifeless.

"Is that the captain?"

"Is he drunk?"

"Why was he so mean to that poor fellow?"

"Are we lost?"

Sherlock waddled down the hall as quickly as he could. He backed into his room and locked the door before concerned parties could invade. Pugarovsky sat, staring into space.

"Do you remember the feel of land, Englishman?"

"I have only been at sea for a day. Now tell me-"

"Water is mother, gives us life, but it is evil mother. It swallows us. I need land. You must help me, Englishman! You must allow me to do my trade in New York!" Pugarovsky was on his knees. Sherlock was now seeing a strange family resemblance. "We will find the Watson, we will. Vanya is just playing."

Sherlock kicked the Russian in the face.

"Do you think I believe you? My partner is missing! And you and your brother put on your acts, your theatrics, and I don't have the slightest idea where she could be or what she's doing or what your brother did to her? You think that I could possibly feel safe, knowing she's locked, trapped, fortified in that room with the crackpot?" Pugarovsky shrugged, rubbing his chin.

"No guarantee she's there." Sherlock's anger nearly lifted him off the ground. Luckily for Pugarovsky, the door, with it's lousy lock decided to burst open. It was none other than Aunt Agnes.

"For heaven's sake Sherlock Holmes, why do you two insist on squabbling when Joan is missing? Must women do all the work around here?" She asked. She looked down at the ball of fur in her arms. "Yes, Rudolph, Joan and Agnes doing all the work once again."

"But Joan the Watson is lost." Pugarovsky scratched the back of his head.

"Precisely." Rolling her eyes at the confusion on Sherlock and Pugarovsky's faces, she said, "I think you will agree that is the most important part of the mystery. You cannot solve a mystery lacking in mystery, isn't that right, Rudolph?" Rudolph cooed. Sherlock grimaced.

"I believe Joan is being held captive by this fellow's brother, who is, to say the least, mentally unstable. I believe she is in great danger, and I believe that any moment, he may do something drastic, if he has not already. He already claims to have done something irreversible." Sherlock glared at Pugarovsky, who stood up. "Not only that, this fellow has gotten us lost."

"Are his accusations true? Speak up, man!" Aunt Agnes frowned down at Pugarovsky.

"No, no, they are-well they are true. But-"

"No buts about it! You ought to be ashamed. What will we do lost at sea? Do you have a radio?"

"Well, I think so, but never I learned..."

"Take me to it." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Aunt Agnes frowned at him. "What? I knew a man once who was very interested in radios. I learned a thing or two. I think I should be able to save you there." Sherlock gaped. "Shut your mouth." Sherlock closed it."

"As for Joan, you better figure out how to get information out of this brother. If a single hair on her head is harmed, I will personally denounce both of you the second we are rescued. Be warned." Rudolph growled.


End file.
